Tippling Through Time

You kids got it easy. Back in the day, wetting your whistle took a little extra effort.

Utah’s newest liquor “reform”
still requires barkeeps to run
patrons’ IDs through a barcode
scanner (if patrons appear
younger than 35). That might seem odd,
but it’s par for the course in the Beehive
State, where keeping tabs on drinkers
is an old tradition. In fact, it wasn’t that
long ago that Utahns carried a “liquor
license” next to a driver license in their
wallets.

Over the years, Utah’s “private clubs”
have became less private and less like
clubs. But knowing the code words needed
to order your favorite drink did make you
feel like a member of a secret society with
the password to the speakeasy.

The “Liquor License”—Following
the repeal of Prohibition (courtesy of
Utah’s Legislature, which officially ended
Prohibition for the nation by becoming the
36th state to approve repeal in 1933), all
tahe old bootleg joints put up a shingles as
open bars. But the party was short-lived,
as Beehive State lawmakers quickly took
control of liquor sales in 1935. Buying
a bottle meant handing a state-issued
piece of paper with no photo—your own
personal “liquor license”—over to the
nice man behind the counter of the state
liquor store. First, you ran your finger
down a menu held beneath two panes of
glass to find what you wanted—a bottle
of Jack Daniels—then located the official
state code number assigned to the brand
and bottle size. You wrote both down
on an index card and handed the card,
your liquor license and money to the man
behind the counter who
fetched your bottle.

“Brown-Bagging”—
From the end of Prohibition
until 1969—when Utah’s
Legislature passed the first
in a series of liquor “reform”
laws—the Beehive State
had among the most
conservative liquor laws in
the nation. But you’d never
know that walking into a
restaurant or beer hall.
Brown bags containing
scotch, gin and bourbon sat
u n d e r tables within easy reach of
many diners. “Brown bagging” was the
only way to go—because the only place
in Utah you could buy liquor was the
state liquor store, not a restaurant.

Bringing your own booze to the
restaurant or tavern wasn’t very suave,
but it sure was a cheap way to drink,
and many Utahns of a certain age
fondly remember brown bagging. At the
tavern—which only served beer—you
could pour yourself shots as long as you
also bought beer from the owner.

It was the era of “liquor by the drunk”
in the eyes of would-be reformers. Utah
law required you to bring a full bottle
to the restaurant, but made it a crime
to have an opened bottle in your car,
theoretically encouraging people to drain
the last drop. In reality, many Utahns
carried with them some sort of satchel
or violin case specially fitted out to carry
liquor bottles.

The mini-bottle—In 1968, Utah
voters followed the advice of LDS Church
leaders and voted against a “liquor by
the drink” initiative at the ballot box that
would have allowed restaurants to pour
a drink for customers. The following year,
the Legislature passed a liquor “reform”
law that gave Utahns the stiffest drink in
the country—in the name of moderation.

According to the law that lasted until
1990, you still had to buy your liquor from
the state liquor store—but restaurants
could set up their own mini-state liquor
stores onsite, in “an inconvenient place,”
typically a closet. Lambs Grill on Main
Street Salt Lake City had a unique take:
a handsome cabinet placed in the center
of the dining room. Diners would buy
mini-bottles, then carry them to their
tables where they would mix their own
drinks in restaurant “set-ups.” Halfway
into the night, piles of mini-bottles would
litter the tables. And each drink packed a
healthy 1.7 ounces.

Private Clubs—There was a time
in Utah when a private club really was a
private club. If you didn’t want to mix your
own drink, you had to belong to a golf club
or purchase a membership in the Alta Club,
Ambassador Club or University Club.

Such clubs kept lockers where members
would keep their personal bottles of
scotch, bourbon or gin, each with its
owner’s name marked on it. When a club
member wanted a drink, staff would go
to that member’s locker in the back room
and pour from the member’s personal
bottle. At least that’s how it worked in
theory. In reality, the lockers were magic.
If a member or a guest wanted an exotic
liquor, it just always happened to be in
his or her locker.

The breakthrough for Utah liquor
service came when the Utah Legislature,
in its wisdom, passed a law allowing
individuals to own private, “nonprofit”
clubs, and the professional barkeep
entered the stage. He owned the club.
He served the booze. Legally, it was still
a private club. Officially, it held annual
meetings of members. But it worked
like a bar. (The idea that the clubs were
“nonprofit” quickly became a joke. The
club never made a dime, but it paid
hefty “management fees” to the guy
who happened to own the bar.) During a
brief respite from the liquor laws known
as the 2002 Winter Games, membership
fees and lists were dropped. But the
Legislature slammed the door when the
tourists left town. However, the days of
private clubs were numbered. Struggles
to maintain the legal fiction lasted until
the Legislature abolished membership
fees this year.